


Daydream

by dollface



Series: Daydream [1]
Category: All Time Low, Tonight Alive
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 15:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1433320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollface/pseuds/dollface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>daydream<br/>/ˈdeɪdriːm/<br/>a series of pleasant thoughts that distract one's attention from the present.</p><p>I want you to be mine, but I wouldn’t know what to say to express this. I know that you’ll give me an awkward sideways hug and laughter will spill from your rosy lips. “I love ya too,” you’ll reply – you won’t read anything into it.</p><p>You’re a daydream, a fantasy, wishful thinking even. That’s why I’m sitting on your kitchen floor, not uttering a single word, in case it shatters the illusion I’m dreaming up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tales Told on Kitchen Floors

The afternoon sun is filtering into the almost peaceful room, bouncing off of the white tiles and blinding me whenever I glance down, a soft smile playing at the corners of my mouth. You’re telling the tale again – the one about how we met as kids, only to meet again almost ten years later.  
  
“I remember it like yesterday. This kid,” you begin, palm meeting my chest with an almost inaudible  _smack_ , “walks into homeroom like he’s the shit, right, bandana on and everything.” I cringe at the ‘bandana craze’ period of my life. It’s been a few years since we left high school – we’re twenty one going on nineteen.  
  
Your slightly inebriated boyfriend is splayed next to you, playing with your dark hair absentmindedly. You’ve kept it its natural colour this time around. It suits you, not that I would dare say anything more opinionated than “it looks good” if you asked me. I wouldn’t say that I like the way that when the sun hits it on the right angle it sets off your eyes that appear to sparkle – it’s the light reflecting off them. I wouldn’t say that I like how it’s not one solid colour, unlike when you colour it and you aren’t able to get the low and highlights to show through. I wouldn’t say anything more, because that would mean you’re more than just a friend. “He turns to me, tryin’ to look all cool and tough and says in this high voice ‘do you know where room 21 is?’ We were  _in_  room 21.” Your boyfriend lets out a short laugh, nudging my outstretched legs.  
  
“Nice one.” I shrug in response, not particularly interested in your story any more – I’ve heard it a dozen times. The room always changes. Sometimes it’s the science block. Most times it’s whatever age we are at the moment. It’s much easier that way. You continue talking, your voice filling the empty space, lapsing into silence every now and then to take a sip from the bottle in your hands. Your boyfriend continues to laugh, even at not particularly humorous parts of the story. He doesn’t want to listen to your voice. It’s not a stock standard “girl” voice – it has an abundance of inflections and sounds scratchy due to the alcohol drying out your throat.  
  
You’ve passed the stage of our homeroom meeting – it’s back to when we were kids. Ihadn’t fallen for you wasn’t crushing on you back then; you were just another girl, a school yard friend. “We lived next door to each other. I used to hear the most atrocious sounds of a guitar being played after school – he nearly burst my eardrums.” Another white lie – you lived a few streets away. We had met at the park; I had thrown the ball to my dad, only for it to miss him and almost hit you in the head. I had run up to you, apologies spilling from my mouth, and you had tossed the ball back, just as hard. It hit me in the chest.  _Watch where you throw that, dork._  You’d said, no malice in your voice. Our parents had begun talking, leaving us to wage a throwing war.  
  
“We used to walk home together, and he’d lug his guitar over to my place and perform covers of songs.” You meet my eyes this time, secretive smile wrapped on your lips. I stop picking at the sticker around the neck of my beer, it’s my turn to join in.  
  
“First cover,” I say, clearing my throat, “was an old Blink song. She thought I was terrible.” This was another lie, but more elaborate. We had only met once, at the park. Your boyfriend isn’t paying attention any more. He’s nuzzling your neck, not bothering to hide his disinterest. He’s murmuring words into your tan skin, leaving small kisses on your shoulder.  
  
My heart sinks as I watch. I would never disregard a story of yours, never. I clear my throat again, louder this time, and your boyfriend looks over unabashedly. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what he was saying. “Sorry, mate.” He says, voice flat. I simply duck my head.  _You don’t deserve him._  
  
A few minutes later and he stands, saying that he has work tomorrow and needs to finish off some essay. I bite back a smile. He knows he isn’t going to get any reaction out of you. You walk him to the door as I get up and stretch, my back muscles aching as I straighten them – sitting slumped over for an hour or so isn’t a smart idea. I finish my beer in a few mouthfuls, placing the empty bottle on the counter before following you to the entry way. Your voice raises a few notches and you yell, “I said you could leave – goodbye!”  
  
You storm into the lounge, your sock covered feet barely making any noise. I turn the corner and there’s a fire in your eyes; you let out a frustrated yell and throw playing cards across the room. You watch them flutter down, the cards seeming to wink as they contrasted with the dark wall which was cloaked in shadows.  
  
“Playing fifty–two pick up?” My attempt at a joke is shut down by a glare. I detest that guy, I really do. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. “He’s a jerk.” I say, wrapping you in a hug. Your arms instinctively return the gesture, and I can feel you playing with a hole in the back of my shirt. You agree with a small nod before asking,  
  
“Why does your shirt have a hole in it?”  
  
“It’s old. What are you going to do about him?” You pull away and shrug, a weak smile on your face.  
  
“I can’t say I love him or anything that could possibly defend my position.” You chew your bottom lip and spin your nose ring, wincing. You mustn’t have moved it in a few days. “Alex, what  _should_  I do?”  
  
 _Break up_  is my immediate thought. I mull over it for a few seconds, watching you move over to the couch and sprawl over it. I sit on the floor just in front of your stomach, leaning my head back. “I’m not sure.” I reply finally, but you’re not listening. You’ve pulled out your phone and have dialled. I can only imagine who it would be.  
  
“Anthony.” You say, voice steely. I hear a quiet crackle as he replies. “No, shut up.” Your eyebrows jump together, and you seem disgusted by whatever he’s saying, “I’m breaking up with you – stay the heck away, okay?” More static, but higher in pitch. He seems more alert now, more desperate to keep you. “Goodbye.” You cut him off, relaxing into the furniture.  
  
“Smart decision.” I mumble. A hum meets my ears, and I close my eyes.


	2. Tales Made Behind Bedroom Doors

“Do you want me to drive you home?”  
  
“Please.” I had another two beers after you’d broken up with Anthony. A celebration of sorts. You drank a glass of whiskey – something fancier to spruce up the situation. Only one, however. You wanted to be okay to drive.  
  
“Come on, then. Time to go to home.”  
  
On the drive back to my apartment, you held my hand and allowed me to rub circles into your knuckles. My hands swamped yours; yours are delicate, the tanned skin not quite reaching them, your palms are as pale as your kitchen tiles. We shared a few words, looking out of the windows into the dim evening, some people already drunk, more than often the males leaning on the females.  
  
“Douchebags…” You muttered, “They should ditch them and have some fun.” You slammed your foot down on the accelerator as the light turned green, eliciting an almighty squeal from the vehicle. You giggled as I shouted, slowing down. I joined in after a few seconds, my breathing quickened from the scare.  
  
The key misses the lock a few times, my vision blurry. You take the key from me and lean forward. You’re close enough that I can smell your sweet, sweet scent of mixed berries. It’s faint from your shower this morning and has collided with your deodorant that gives off an aroma of mangoes. It puzzled me at first – why choose the one that smells of fruit? – but then you told me that the name of the deodorant is “confidence” and you like that; you believe everyday should be filled with it.  
  
Your fruity scent disappears inside the house as I am, once again, left to ponder. You call out to me, voice already faint, and I follow in a daze.  
  
“Where are you?” I ask, rifling around in the kitchen – I want to rid myself of a potential hangover. Coffee’s never worked for me and I dislike the taste of instant, which is the only type I have in the house at the moment. I turn to the next best thing – ice.  
  
As I drop a few cubes into the empty cup, I visualize you when you first showed me this nifty trick.  _Coffee never works,_  I had whined, stirring the dark liquid in the not quite pristine white cup. It was stained with years of being used to hold coffee and tea.  _Try water,_  you had replied, filling up a glass with water from the tap and slamming it in front of me. _Drink up._  I had decided it was too warm after a tentative sip – I would never believe that all my headache problems could be cured with water, it was too simple. Maybe with water and aspirin, which is what you ended up giving me after I added a few ice cubes that I happily crunched on.  _Remember to hydrate yourself when you drink,_  you added with a smile.  
  
You stomp downstairs with heavy feet, finally having paid attention to my words and showing yourself. “Have one of my shirts,” I comment dryly, my eyes lingering on the familiar grey shirt with “teen angst” on it in large, block lettering. It swamps your petite frame and you courtesy, holding the hem of the too-big shirt down.  
  
“Ice? Nice.” Your eyes sparkle mischievously, landing on the glass. “Perfect addition to a mixer.” I pad upstairs warily after you tear my kitchen to shreds, your eyes now fixated on the clear bottle of alcohol in one hand and lime in the other. I’m carrying the salt and what has now turned into a bowl of ice.  
  
“Tequila shots, really?” I whine as I trudge across the landing. You've already crept into my room, and I can hear the squeaking of the bottle cap as you unscrew it. You're cross-legged on my bed and death staring me when I enter.  
  
“Yes, tequila shots. I just broke up with my jerk of a boyfriend.” You pat the bed next to you and I oblige with an almost inaudible sigh; you don't notice. “If I'm staying the night,” you paused and looked at me, waiting for confirmation which I give in a nod, “then we may as well get trashed.”  
  
“One problem,” I say as you start to try and set up the ingredients. I crunch on a piece of ice, hoping to be a little more sober than tipsy when we begin. “The limes aren’t cut up and we don't have shot glasses.”  
  
You jump off of the bed and scurry downstairs, limes in hand. “That's right!” I fall back on the bed, traces of your fruit filled aroma lingering on the covers. I inhale and listen to the dull thuds of a knife hitting the chopping board.  
  
Your footsteps are light when you re-enter the room, possibly with the plans of startling me. I keep my eyes closed, and wait for your soft touch upon my stomach and the “boo” that will follow half a beat later.  
  
I get there before you though, and jerk upright, “boo!” You shriek before laughing, the limes now in a bowl, juice coating the sides. There’s shot glasses in the bowl too and I grimace as I retrieve one, wiping the glass and my sticky hand on my shirt. “Fill her up.” I say, holding out the glass.  
  
Four shots each later, and we’ve decided to play a game – strip ‘n sip snap. Lose the round, and you have to have a shot and remove an item of clothing. It’s quite simple, really. I remove my shirt first, and you decide to do the same when you lose. You have a singlet on under the grey and you poke your tongue out at me. A few more rounds and I’m down to my boxers while you still have on your singlet and underwear. You took off your socks one at a time and got me with the “one article of clothing” rule.  
  
We’re both sufficiently drunk by this stage. “I don’t want to play anymore.” You announce, throwing your remaining cards down. I’ve almost won this game, and it’s clear which clothing item you will remove – and no, it isn’t your underwear.  
  
“If you don’t play I’ll have to remove it for ya.” My words run together and I lean forward, playing with the hem. I snap the fabric, so that it hits the side of your stomach lightly.  
  
“You couldn’t if you dare.”  
  
“Is that a challenge?”  
  
“Maybe.” Your eyes, your dark chocolate eyes that glimmer in light of the dare, that flash with anger when you knock over your microphone stand on stage, that I could fall into and swim endlessly in, lock on mine. I never could resist a challenge.  
  
My mouth captures yours, and I pull you closer to me, the cards and drink all but forgotten. I break the kiss and you gasp as I whip your top off. You make an unsatisfactory noise as your arms become tangled the arm holes, pulled above your head. I smirk and hold the shirt in one hand and undo your bra with the other. You wriggle out of your shirt, arms flailing, and glare at me. “I said  _singlet_  not  _bra_.” With a shrug I lean in to kiss you again.  
  
We melt into each other, and it’s only a few minutes before I’m hovering above you, your fingers tangled in my hair. We’re in the same clothing situation – boxers and underpants only. I can sense where this is heading, but I want to tell you something before it comes to that. Your hands are wandering further down, but I break the sloppy kiss, opening my eyes and fixating them on yours.  
  
Your breathing is heavy and your eyes have darkened significantly. “What – ”  
  
“I love you.” Now that it’s out of my system, I lean down to give you a shorter, sweeter kiss. More heartfelt than the numerous others we’ve shared. You push on my chest lightly.  
  
“What?” You ask, incredulous.  
  
“I love you, Jenna.”  
  
“I love you too.” You murmur back, pulling me down. You lips move to the base of my throat.  
  
“Really?” It’s my turn to be incredulous. You pause from sucking at the skin at my throat, and I wonder if you felt the vibrations of my vocal cords. You look up and bite your lip, eyes becoming soft.  
  
You always were a compulsive liar. “No strings attached.” You finally say.


End file.
